“Mia, look at me. Do not dwell too much on your emotions, for by emotions many women are snared by the Devil. You must trust me.”
Mia looked again at her house, empty save for a table and a bed, where her husband ate and slept. There was a tiny mattress nearer the fire, a child’s bed that would be empty this winter if the healing did not hold. Mia looked down at her hands, at her ring of betrothal. Hope held it all together. Nothing else. Only her blind, foolish hope.
“Who am I,” she asked, “that a great Inquisitor should show me any affection? What have I to offer you?”
“Any other woman would ask what I, a great Inquisitor, could offer her.”
“I did not bid you to come.” Her heart beat fast as she spoke, so fast that she rushed the words out before she lost nerve. “You came to me because you want something. Even a fool like me knows that. Why can you not find it among the other women?”
“A man spied a pearl in a vast field of stones, and he went and sold all he had. He purchased that field and claimed his treasure, and none could stop him.”
“And Jesus said this was like the kingdom of God.”
Bastion raised his eyebrows. “Do you know the Bible?”
“Not as well as I should.” Mia could not hide the pain in her voice.
He bent for another kiss, but she pushed him back.
Bastion bowed and departed.
Chapter Eighteen
Stefan looked at the boys’ dirty faces. Their bodies were smeared with ashes. The eldest insisted he should be paid more, as he had collected the bones. Bastion requested the bones be saved for him. He would smash them and scatter them in the river, sending Rose’s—the witch’s—remains out into the sea, where she would be lost forever. Stefan pressed a coin into each palm covered in ash and grime.
“Bless you, Father,” one boy called, running for home. Their mothers would be filled with joy at the money. Or maybe they would pause for a shy moment before extending their palms, thinking this was blood money—blood money that Father Stefan had brought to them all.
It had been the right thing to do, calling for an Inquisitor. A murder had occurred—two murders, in fact. Left on the church steps like a dare. Bjorn could not have been counted on to understand the enormous opportunity. He had even seemed hostile to the idea of calling for an Inquisitor. Stefan heard tales of Inquisitors, always busy in more prominent towns, always doing great works that the church fathers would not soon forget. The village of Dinfoil could be remembered too. Great works could be done here. Two murders gave reason enough to call for an Inquisitor.
“I have done what was right,” Stefan prayed aloud, “and yet, Lord, my soul is not at peace. Something raw lies in my heart that will not let me rest. Is it something I have done? Have I failed You somehow?”
The candles below the altar burned but did not dance. Stefan saw that nothing stirred the air. He was alone. Maybe he had always been alone in here. Or maybe God would not answer because the answer must be brought up from Stefan’s heart.
Stefan cleared his throat, grateful to be alone. He was going to say something foolish. “I brought Bastion here. But the suffering he caused does not seem right to me. I cannot argue with what he says. He is smarter than I am, and better educated. All I have is a painful sense that You are not pleased. Is it me, O Lord? Do I displease You? What more do You have for me to learn?”
After a long, empty silence, he looked around, his eyes noting the seat Rose had preferred. He had known her for more than ten years, since her husband came to work the land for the baron who owned much of this village. She had arrived in winter, and Stefan had gone at once to welcome them. Rose had clutched his hand and thanked him, over and over, for such kindness. To a frightened young bride in a new village, a kind priest was a lifeline.
She had attended every service, except when her husband’s recurring illnesses prevented her from leaving their home. He had declined fast after the wedding, leaving her with work and no children for comfort. After the funeral, Rose had continued to stay on in the village, a faithful, friendly face as he said Mass. Two springs had passed since she stopped attending so often, even struggling for words when she sat in the confessional. I was a poor priest, he thought, to fail in giving sustaining words. He had no idea what was wrong with her. Her faithful, friendly face turned dark and hard, sitting through Masses with an accusing eye.
Eventually he became glad when she did not attend.
But had she been a witch?
Behind the altar, in the back of the church, was a hallway. The sun came in through a single window. Stefan watched as the light illuminated particles of dust floating in the air. They swirled and flew up like sparks. Something had stirred them.
“Hello?” Stefan listened and heard nothing. “Who is there?”
He heard a scratching sound.